


Build Up

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, First Time, Honeymoon, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, No graphic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 18:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21085580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley has waited 6000 years for this moment with his angel …That might be one of the reasons he fails so spectacularly.





	Build Up

“Mmm … Crowley … I …” Aziraphale’s words are breaths between kisses. As Crowley’s mouth travels down his neck, Aziraphale attempts to string together enough of them to form a single, cohesive sentence. But he’s finding that difficult with Crowley’s lips bruising the skin of his neck, his hands pursuing every button on his clothes, his trembling fingertips brushing flesh that’s never been touched by foreign hands. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Crowley snorts. “Aziraphale, I’ve waited _6000 years_ to do this.”

“Yes, but, I mean … with _me_?”

“You’re my husband. Who _else_ am I going to do this with?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Aziraphale …” Crowley huffs, struggling with this conversation as much as he’s struggling with Aziraphale’s oddly complicated belt buckle “… I really, _really_ don’t.” Crowley gives up on the buckle and kneels up, utilizing this vantage point to gaze into Aziraphale’s eyes. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No!” Aziraphale waves his hands in front of him, frantically windmilling that perception away. “No, not at all! I want this … I want _you_, very, _very_ badly.” Crowley grins at his husband’s emphasis, his penchant for over-explaining when he gets anxious, and is inspired to take another go at that buckle. “It’s just that you’re … well …” Aziraphale gestures vaguely at Crowley’s body … “and I’m …” Another vague gesture, this time at himself. Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I’ll be disappointed if you count yourself out before we even get started.”

“We have all night,” Aziraphale assures him.

“Won’t be enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said it won’t be enough. One night isn’t going to be enough for what I have planned.”

“A-and what do you have planned?” Aziraphale asks, a well of excitement forming in his belly

“You’ll see.” Crowley grins, eyes glowing with mischief and promise. “I’ve been thinking about this for a _long_ time, Aziraphale. I intend on enjoying this,” he murmurs just shy of the pulse thrumming in Aziraphale’s neck. “I’m going to make sure you enjoy it, too. Ruin you for anyone else.”

“There’s been no one else. And there will be no one else.” Aziraphale swallows, the movement of his throat drawing Crowley’s eyes to the hollow of his neck. He latches his mouth to it, lapping softly while he finally gets that blasted buckle undone. Aziraphale gasps when Crowley’s palm makes contact with soft, secret skin. With that spring breeze of sound, new to his ears and sweet, Crowley’s grin becomes a monument to this moment. He’s planning to employ every temptation of lust he’s ever implanted into the minds of men (without the actual tempting, of course) – glean from every erotic dream he’s ever glimpsed. He’s going to devour Aziraphale over the course of hours, days, maybe even weeks; ignite every fantasy that’s ever passed through his brilliant brain. He’s going to strip him bare, take him apart piece by piece like the beautifully complicated puzzle he is, then put him back together but slowly. He’s going to thumb through him like the delicate pages of a cherished first edition, hold him reverently by the edges, linger on the scandalous passages, the ones no one else has yet to read, trace the words printed there with light strokes of his fingertips. He’ll keep Aziraphale balanced on the bitter edge of ecstasy, begging for release, and then, only then, when he hears the tortured timbre of his voice will he decide whether or not he’ll grant it.

***

_Six minutes later …_

Silence.

Well, not really silence.

More like a pause. A heavy breath. A pregnant break between two musical passages.

Quiet, but with enough tension to slice a single hair in two.

Somewhere within it, Aziraphale hears a Godawful ticking - a clock somewhere in Crowley’s flat that he’d never noticed before, but which he does now because the two of them are lying so still and so separate, the space between them feels like miles, which makes that clock on the wall two hallways away and several doors down a closer companion by comparison.

It’s not funny, Aziraphale repeats to himself, even with the smile to end all smiles growing on his face like a spindly vine. He pinches his lips together, deepening his dimples, but he refuses to snicker, especially since, over on his side of the bed, Crowley is staring at the ceiling above him with so much acid, Aziraphale is surprised the thick, glistening stone hasn’t started melting upon them.

Crowley was amazing, in Aziraphale’s naïve opinion. Never did he expect his demon to be such a gentle and attentive lover – so selfless, so giving. Indeed, he did all of the touching, most of the seducing. But in the end, it was the mere thought of deflowering his angel that did him in.

And ended the proceedings.

It alarmed Aziraphale when it happened. The look on Crowley’s face, the pain in his expression, the groan in his voice, the way his body seized – Aziraphale thought that Hell had gotten their claws into him and was pulling him back.

A second later, Crowley wished they had.

When the fateful moment occurred, Aziraphale didn’t know how to react. Should he wrap his arms around him to try and break Hell’s hold? Was there an incantation he should recite to dissolve their influence? Maybe a hymn he could sing? But when Crowley’s muscles returned to his control and he started spitting curses – “Shit! Shit! Shit! Motherfucking _shiiiiittttt_!” Aziraphale laughed with relief.

Hence why Crowley is now lying five feet away, arms crossed over his chest, seething.

And as devastated as Aziraphale is that their first attempt ended this way, he can’t help finding the whole situation as hilarious as all get out.

“Well …” Aziraphale says, clearing his throat at the first crack in his voice as he fights not to laugh.

“Well …” Crowley mutters, in no mood for small talk.

“I’m sorry if that didn’t go the way you’d planned.”

“Ya know, I said we were going to be here _all night_, angel. I didn’t say it was gonna be only one round.”

“I see, my dear.” Aziraphale clears his throat again, harder since the laughter bubbling there refuses to be removed. “No, you’re right. That makes perfect sense. Please, just tell me …”

“Yes?”

“The rounds are going to last longer hereafter, yes?”

“Satan give me strength,” Crowley mumbles. “We’ll call that round the first pancake and be done with it, shall we?”

“Mmm, pancakes …” Aziraphale sighs, the thought of golden brown and buttery goodness derailing his thoughts a little. “Maybe we should take a break? Stop for a snack? Rebuild your strength for the night ahead?”

Crowley rolls back over, pinning the giggling angel beneath him not just with his body, but with his piercing stare.

“Quiet you. You’re the only thing on the menu tonight.”

“And are you hungry, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, passing his arms around Crowley’s neck, gaining a bit of confidence out of this snafu that he’s grateful for. It would be nice to be a participant in this honeymoon marathon – take the burden off of Crowley to perform.

Then maybe they’ll make it to fifteen minutes next time. Possibly a half hour.

Crowley kisses his husband, swallowing Aziraphale’s sass with a passionate press of his still swollen lips. When Aziraphale slips his tongue between them, Crowley growls. “Famished.”


End file.
